A Sure Thing: What happens when modern racing is infected by the criminal underworld.
Page 41
Oliver shrugged. “Better safe than sorry . . . Um, I also need you to auction Painter at a horse sale and give the proceeds to the Limerick Drug Treatment Centre. Specifically, I want to find a way of educating school kids and students about the link between their occasional joint and organised crime.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Sean’ll help you get her ready and enter her for the sales, but call James first. He has to get permission from the Americans.” Oliver slid Monica Kimble’s card onto the table. “He’ll use this agent as a contact to put pressure on the justice system to get Painter released from Marco’s assets. If she has any trouble, James will contact this reporter for Trackspeed magazine.” He placed Emmy Harris’s card beside Monica’s. “She’ll go public about the Feds denying an addiction centre a windfall. That should do the trick.”
“How much is Painter worth?” she said, putting the cards in her purse.
“Maybe half a million. More, if the right people do battle for her. She was a hell of a racehorse.”
Evelyn was about to speak, but instead she glanced over Oliver’s shoulder, smiled broadly, and stood. Rebecca had arrived from the room. The two women embraced.
“You look different with blonde hair. I hear you’re off travelling,” said Evelyn.
Rebecca gave her a lopsided smile.
“Stay safe, both of you.” She gripped both their hands. The silence was deafening.
Suddenly, Evelyn released them and started to put on her coat. “I’m going to dash and catch the evening train.”
“But, Mum . . .”
"Not a word, Oliver. Just let me know you’re alright, wherever you end up.” She nudged Rebecca. “I’ll be relying on you for that. He’s been hopeless about keeping in touch since this whole episode started.” With that, she buttoned up her coat. “Onwards and upwards.”
“Mum, please stay the night, I got you a room.”
“I’ll get back to Painter. You get on a plane and stay safe.” She held out her arms. “But I would like a hug, before I leave.”
Oliver gripped his mother tight and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll take you to the station.”
“That would be nice.” She hugged Rebecca and whispered in her ear, “Look after him for me.” Tears were welling up in her eyes, but she hastily wiped them with a tissue.
Oliver hailed a cab and dropped his mother to the platform just in time for the express train back to Limerick. He hugged her tightly before she boarded.
“We’ll see each other again before you know it,” she said, though neither of them believed it.
He stood on the platform until the train was long out of view.
When he got back to the hotel, Rebecca had already packed their bags. “That was some job today. Hell of a plan you came up with.”
“Thanks, Bec. I’m glad we’ll be able to do something with all that money.”
“There’s no point staying here any more, hon. Let’s go to the airport.” She arched her eyebrows quizzically.
He grabbed her and kissed her passionately. “You read my mind. Let’s go right now.”
They paid the bill and hopped in a taxi for the airport. An hour later, they stood in the check-in area, gazing up at the departures board amidst a seething mass of humanity.
“Holy shit, it’s pretty busy for a Tuesday evening in winter,” said Rebecca, jostling for space to stand in the crowds.
“The celtic cubs never stop. For now, anyway. Where to, Bec?”
“Paris. Definitely Paris – I’ve never been. Then on to Bombay.”
Oliver pulled a plastic bag out of his holdall and handed it to Rebecca.
She opened it. “What the–! Are these all five-hundreds?”
“Yep! There’s fifty grand in there. I got it from the bank. James slipped it to me this morning.”
“Crafty devil.”
He smiled.
They walked hand-in-hand to the Aer Lingus ticket desk, where Oliver asked for two economy tickets for the next flight to Paris. “No, hang on a second,” he said to the girl as she typed details into her computer. “Make that two business class seats.” He winked at Rebecca and they both burst out laughing.
Chapter 69
Marco strode purposefully down the dreary corridor, ignoring the faceless shouts which echoed around the walls, and made his way to the electric door. The burly guard followed him at a respectful distance of three paces, contrary to procedure.
“How’s the wife and kids, Bruce?” Marco said over his shoulder.
“They’re good, Mr. Romano. And thanks again.”
“Anytime, Bruce.”
The door buzzed and snapped open, letting the Mafia boss through to the holding area. He stood tall, and smiled and nodded at the door guard behind the glass, who jerked his finger towards the interview rooms. Marco ran his hands over his slicked-back hair and tugged on the collar of his prison jumpsuit to reveal the immaculate white T-shirt underneath.
He passed the entrance to the row of cubicles for normal visitors, linked to the other side by telephone handsets, all conversations eavesdropped on by the door guard and his assistant. There was no such lack of privacy for Marco when he had a lawyer visit.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Number three, Mr. Romano,” said Bruce, scurrying around to open the door.
The heavy steel door swung open to reveal Hal Bristow, sitting alone on a plastic chair with his back to the door. He swivelled at the sound. There was sweat running from his hairline and trickling down the side of his face to form a dark stain on his collar. His neck bulged as if his purple silk tie was cutting into him like a noose. He began to stand.
“Don’t bother,” spat Marco.
Bruce pulled out Marco’s chair and let him sit comfortably. “Will that be all, Mr. Romano?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Bruce shot a curious look at the perspiring attorney and closed the door behind him.
Marco stared stony-faced at his lawyer. “Where’s Tweedle-Dee?”
Hal looked terrified. “Todd got, um, hit by a car. He’s in hospital – ICU.”
“He gonna pull through?”
Hal swallowed. “Doctors aren’t sure.”
“Huh. Got a cigarette?”
Hal fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack. Marco tore the whole thing from his hand and lit one. He inhaled deeply and savoured the moment, leaving the cigarette in his mouth while his hands drummed the table rhythmically.
Hal waited.
“So, what do you got for me?” said Marco, drumming continuously.
Hal glanced over his shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. “I spoke to The Nail. He got in contact.” He paused.
“And?” The fingers kept tapping the table.
Another bead of sweat fell down the lawyer’s face. Marco followed it, and found it hard to suppress a grin.
“Well, he uh, he told me to ask you if you wanted any tidying up done. Specifically in relation to the uh, young Rat and the, um, Irish situation.” Hal could imagine what tidying up referred to, but was not inclined to give it much thought, lest he might start wondering if he would find himself on the garbage list. Mike had assured him that he and Todd were on very thin ice and no further fuck-ups would be tolerated.
Marco’s hands stopped moving and he slumped back in his chair. He discarded his cigarette and pondered the tasks. A wave of sadness passed over him, one that he did his best to push out of his mind during the normal prison routine. But here, alone with Hal in the room, it bore down on him like a vise.
“Forget the young one. He’s not to be touched. Ever. Make sure word gets out. I don’t want some eager asshole trying to make a name for himself trying to impress me. Understand?”
Hal nodded. “And the Irishman?”
Marco stuffed another cigarette in his mouth and started drumming the table again.
After a couple of minutes, Hal cleared his throat.
Marco glanced at him mom
entarily through the smoke and took another deep drag of nicotine. The fingers kept drumming.
ABOUT SAM O'BRIEN
Sam O'Brien was born in England in 1973 to a racehorse trainer father and a mother who studied speech and drama at the Royal Academy in London. He moved to his mother’s native Limerick in Ireland at the age of nine and grew up riding, pony clubbing, fox-hunting, and working for local racehorse trainers and stud farms.
After school and a brief stint in the British army, he returned to England to start full-time work with racehorses. He spent the ‘90s travelling the world working with horses and in the bloodstock industry. From England, he moved back to Ireland then down to the Hunter Valley in Australia where he worked on a large stud farm and travelled and spent time on a cattle farm, breaking-in wild horses.
From Australia it was on to Kentucky the home of American horse racing and breeding, where he began working for the US arm of Ireland’s renowned Coolmore Stud. He spent the next ten years working at Coolmore and was put in charge of their China/Mongolia project, spending six months creating a stud on the plains of Inner Mongolia and a year training racehorses on the outskirts of Beijing.
He was seconded to the Turkish Jockey Club for a year to upgrade and run the Turkish National Stud, before returning full-time to Ireland in 2001, as an area manager at Coolmore’s Tipperary headquarters.
In 2006 he went back to Turkey to build and manage a racing/breeding operation on the Aegean coast working with a local businessman who wanted an international standard manager/advisor.
He is married to a Frenchwoman, and they have one son aged five. He currently divides his time between the stud farm near Izmir and southern France. He writes analytical articles and horseracing and sale reviews for The Irish Field newspaper and James Underwood’s Racing and Breeding Digest in the UK.
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